


Imagine! Imagine!

by BiP



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Created the Stars (Good Omens), Gen, Good Omens Secret Santa, M/M, Stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28377690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiP/pseuds/BiP
Summary: A gift for YamiKakyuu - story inspired by her beautiful art found here (https://yamikakyuu.tumblr.com/post/636605111535271937/did-you-go-to-alpha-centauri-redo-of-one-of-my).Stargazing through the ages.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Imagine! Imagine!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YamiKakyuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YamiKakyuu/gifts).



It began on the Ark. They’d spent those first sixteen hundred years doing their own work, running into one another on rare occasions, as you’d expect from the only two truly immortal beings on the planet. By the time Noah and his sons got started, though, they’d become friendly, if not actually friends. 

There’s nothing like 40 days of enforced isolation to shake things up. Aziraphale, of course, had to spend some time with the humans, but there were a lot of nights spent with a skin of wine on the highest point of the Ark, lying back and staring at the stars with a demon. 

“That one, there,” Crowley said, pointing, “the swirly blue-green one? That’s the first nebula I made on my own. And that one - that was some of our best work. Those there, that’s actually two stars - Alpha Centauri.” They lie hip to shoulder, touching without touching, close enough to feel each other’s warmth. 

When the dove returns, olive branch clutched tight, Crowley leaves, but over the centuries they meet again, over wine and oysters and olives, and wine and crepes, and wine and street tacos. Whenever possible, they go stargazing together. 

_ Padua, Spring 1608 _

Crowley is supposed to be sowing papal discord, but really what he’s doing is enjoying every bit of art and science this new century has to offer - so much better than the 14th! He isn’t expecting anything, but a courier arrives midafternoon, bearing a small crate with Aziraphale’s seal. He takes it and sends the courier away with a ducat. Inside the box, on a bed of red silk, he finds a most amazing contraption, made of glass and metal. What new delight have the humans made? 

Under it, a card:  _ To bring the stars a tiny bit closer - yours, A. _

“Oh, angel,” he breathes. This is a rare gift. He wishes Aziraphale were here instead of in the cold Netherlands, to go out to the hills with him and see what can be seen - but since he isn’t, Crowley knows who should see this instead. The courier, blocks away, suddenly finds his feet taking him to Galileo, with an urgent note from Crowley to come right over. 

_ London, summer 1759 _

They are walking together along the paths of the newly created Royal Botanic Gardens, having finished a lovely lunch.

Aziraphale says, “Oh! I meant to say, they’ve finally named that lovely comet we first saw...oh, sometime before Yeshua. Come have a picnic with me, and we’ll see if we can spot it?”

“What did they name it, after all this time? Something appropriately apocalyptic, I hope, since every nation has thought it meant terrible omens.” Crowley laughs, lightly. They know what an apocalypse will look like, and it’s not a comet. 

“Heavens, no. Could you imagine? Doombringer.” Aziraphale drops his voice, sounding ridiculous.

“The Death Star,” Crowley counters. 

“The Calamity,” Aziraphle intones, then brightens. “Do you remember, when they rang the bells for days and days calling people to pray against the evil it brought? Poor things.” 

“Do I remember? I had to leave the country, I couldn’t take it, angel. The very air became half-holy!” Crowley shudders, skin itching with the memory. 

Aziraphale, the bastard, laughs outright. 

  
  


_ Kazakhstan, April 1961 _

“Just watch, angel. They’re making history today. Again.” With a burst of flame, and a roar they haven’t heard the likes of since Pompeii, the craft rises into the air and keeps rising. Crowley is overjoyed. “Not quite to the stars, but nearly there! Look at them go, angel!”

Crowley gets very drunk on very good vodka, later, and tells Aziraphale stories about the Pleiades and how many stories the humans have made up about that particular cluster of stars, and how lovely they are. 

  
  


_ Mayfair, January 1994 _

“Crowley? My boy, where are you? We were supposed to be at dinner an hour ago, are you not-” Aziraphale breaks off as the door to the flat opens. Crowley looks dreadful, and Aziraphale says so. “Whatever is wrong, my dear?” He looks around, wildly panicked. He knew this was coming. “Is it your side? Are they here?” He reaches for a sword he doesn’t technically have anymore, but Crowley stills his hand. 

“It’s alright, angel. Come inside.” He wipes the tears off his face and waves Aziraphale in. 

“Honestly, Crowley, what-” the angel starts. 

“It’s nothing terrible, angel, promise. It’s just - these bloody humans and their ingenuity.” Crowley shoves a photograph at Aziraphale, eyes shiny again. 

“What...what am I-”

“It’s a nebula, the Orion nebula; they’ve managed to go out into space and fix that camera and now - look at this, angel, look at the detail. It’s so beautiful.” 

“Oh. Oh, thank Someone, I was worried for a minute! Here, let me order in and you can tell me all about this Bubble-”

“Hubble.”

“Yes. Hubble thing.”

Crowley knows that Aziraphale is smarter than that - but he also knows that getting drunk and telling him about the stars eases something in Crowley, something that just has to happen every century or so. And so he order in takeout curry, and some excellent wine, and Crowley talks for hours about the magnificence of the Hubble telescope and how the humans managed to fix a hairline blemish from “a zillion, angel, zillions of miles” away. 

  
  


_ South Downs, December 2020 _

The fire is crackling merrily; the cottage strung with lights and garland, and smells of sugar cookies and mince pie and roast. 

Crowley looks up from his doomscrolling. “Angel, let’s go see if we can see that Christmas Star, I could use the walk.” 

“Why in the world did you encourage them in calling it that? It’s a perfectly ridiculous name,” Aziraphale tuts. 

“You’ll never convince them that Yeshua wasn’t born in December, angel, let alone that there was no miraculous star.”

Aziraphale grimaces. “That’s what comes of letting Gabriel do the job. Of course he’d make it more about the messenger than the message. I’ve been trying to clear this up for 2000 years now.”

“And you’ll be at it for another 2000, I imagine. Come along, let’s go see if we can fly. I would love to show you the rings of Saturn.” 

Instead, they take mugs of cocoa (with generous shots of whiskey, of course, “against the cold”) and sit on the bench outside the cottage, and watch as the sun sets and the stars and planets come out, shining over the ocean. 

  
  



End file.
